It's Always About The Money
by Child of Loki
Summary: While in NYC to serve on a special taskforce, Nell Jones finds herself dragged into one messed up day. A simple case for the McClane Detective Agency takes an unexpected turn. (Post-DH5) (Very likely to contain Nell/Jack at some point.) (Genre: ACTION!)
1. Chapter 1: Nell Jones

**Disclaimer: I don't own_ NCIS:LA_ or its characters… I also don't own any of the _Die Hard_ films or their characters (but if I did, number five would've been way better!)… Also, locations and companies are entirely fictional, despite the back drop of "NYC"...  
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**Author's Note: What to say about this fic…? What **_**is**_** there to say? I love the character of Nell Jones from **_**NCIS: LA**_** but think she is vastly underutilized/wasted in that show (bar a few good moments and an overall intriguing personality). I loved the concept of **_**A Good Day to Die Hard (**_**John McClane reuniting with his estranged and equally badass son) but sadly admit it was poorly done (read 'poorly written'). And what is the point of fan fiction but to provide closure/fill/satisfaction/balm for what one feels the canon lacks… Or to play with characters one loves… So I give you this strangely birthed crossover.**

**WARNING: This fic will likely contain… Violence (haven't decided on degree of graphic-ness yet), Language (not profuse but I'm not censoring myself), and possibly other mature subject matter.**

**TIMEFRAME (Potential spoilers): Post-**_**A Good Day to Die Hard **_**and Post-Season Four of **_**NCIS: LA **_**(shouldn't deal directly with any specifics of said season or cliffy, but I'm current on the series and while I'm not placing this fic in or between any particular episode(s), I may inadvertently reference events contained in any of the canon).**

**Enjoy!**

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**Chapter 1: In which Nell Jones unwinds, and then plays the Good Samaritan...**

NCIS Intelligence Analyst Nell Jones flopped onto the soft mattress with a sigh and began to sink into the fluffy comforter. It had been a _long_ day. Say what you might about field agents, but at least they didn't contradict her methods at every turn. They trusted that she knew how to do her job, just as she trusted them to do theirs. It had only been one (oh-so-very) long day, but she _missed _her team back in Los Angeles.

Her partner Eric was just as technologically savvy as herself, but he never second-guessed her skills. They worked as a _team_. A concept these Homeland tech geeks definitely required some education on. She tried to let go of the frustration and anger. She would never make it through the rest of the week if she dwelled, stewed and stressed until she was subconsciously grinding away the enamel on her molars. One day, and she was already regretting agreeing to serve on the Taskforce Against the Funding of Terrorism (they'd been calling it TAFT for shorthand) set up by the Department of Homeland Security.

_What the hell were you thinking, Nell?_

"Come out to New York, you can take a break, have a few laughs..."

She groaned into the pillow in which she'd buried her face to the point of near-suffocation and decided that a nice bath might just do the trick. If she could get her ass up...

At least they had put her up in a nice hotel (unintentionally, apparently, since they hadn't booked enough rooms in the hotel they usually employed and stuck her in something surprisingly upscale). She stepped into the tub and then settled in, submerged to her chin in almost-too-hot water with ample bubbles (any hotel that provided bubble bath was a class act, in Nell Jones' humble opinion). She closed her eyes and drifted off into a serene bliss.

...

It wasn't in Nell's nature to remain downcast for long, so in the morning she woke with her usual buoyancy, threw back the comforter and jumped out of bed in nothing but her camisole and panties. She bounced over to the window and pulled back the heavy drapes, admiring the Manhattan cityscape, the skyscrapers reflecting back the blue sky, the older buildings an interesting architectural lace upon the landscape. The sun pouring through the glass was warm on her bare thighs and the exposed slice of midriff between the hem of her shirt and the top of her panties. It was gorgeous out. Today was going to be great.

She would not let it be otherwise.

Nell would never be called vain. At least, she very much hoped not. But she did do a quick check in the mirror before she left her room. She'd rather believe it was prudence that made her do so. Just a last check to make sure nothing unseemly was showing.

She'd chosen a bright yellow sundress.

It was a beautiful, sunny day outside and she would carry it with her into the stark, soul-crushing grey interior of the federal building where the TAFT project was based. (Another reason she already missed the Office of Special Projects, housed in its unique, large yet somehow cozy and comfortable old mission.) The problem was that the soft cotton fabric of the dress was a little thin. But thankfully, not thin enough to show the texture of her scandalously (at least to her 'cotton briefs and plain underwire bra' upbringing) lace covered set of newly acquired underwear. She hadn't been going to pack them, but for some reason she had, and was glad for it. It was probably quite silly and seemed counterintuitive, but they made her feel confident -rather than exposed- for their sensuality. And they fit her amazingly well. The boy-short cut hugged her hips and bottom flatteringly but didn't ride up (miracle!). And the bra was a feat. You'd think it wouldn't be such a problem, but apparently not many companies made a bra to fit a petite and only moderately busty woman. Whether or not they were right, lingerie producers seemed to assume that all small woman were either flat-chested or had boob jobs and were unnaturally endowed. She was frustratingly (as far bras were concerned) in the middle ground. So when she'd found this amazing-fitting bra, she'd snatched up one in every color. This set was pale teal. And surprisingly, it didn't show through her yellow dress.

Despite an entirely decent looking reflection in the full length mirror, Nell bit her lip thoughtfully. How would her temporary coworkers react? She looked like a goddamn ray of sunshine. Oh, to hell with them. She _felt_ like a ray of sunshine. And she _liked_ it. If those bast-_people_ wanted to be miserable, they were welcome to it. She took a deep breath, and pushed all of her anxiety out. At least she had a couple more hours free of them, and thought to seek out breakfast somewhere with cultural flavor (Los Angeles could be shiny, but was rather monotonous and bland underneath the glamour).

Her plans, however, were thwarted when she decided to check in at the front desk. Eric, Kensi, Deeks, or her sisters would simply text her. But Hetty... She wouldn't put it past the old spy to call the front desk and leave her a note, or have a secret message slipped in some innocuous package of chocolates or the like (challenging her to hone her deciphering skills for a simple 'Hello, dear. Hope you're settling in satisfactorily.'). And then there was her mom, who could track her down anywhere, even though Nell herself hadn't even known where she'd be staying until late last night (having gone directly to the federal building off from her delayed flight to sit through a painfully long and detailed briefing). There could be cookies, magically made and forwarded, waiting for her. Neither of the contingencies she thought possible (although improbable) proved to be the case, however.

When asked whether there were any messages for Room 2308, the young woman behind the desk with a smile as polished as the brass nametag affixed to her chic black blazer, produced a fat envelope. Nell raised a curious eyebrow out of pure habit. She encountered many things to intrigue her intellectual curiosity on a daily basis, but her imagination hadn't quite become inured to it. She accepted the parcel, and finding a cozy lobby chair to seat herself in, took to examining it. A plain manila envelope, sealed. The only markings on it beside the manufacturer's information was in thick black marker. And it wasn't her name. Just 'Room 2308' printed neatly in an unfamiliar hand. She delicately probed the envelope. If she had learned anything from working for the Naval Criminal Investigative Service it was that one could never be too careful (especially after hearing that urban legend about one of their agents being poisoned with pneumonic plague, which really couldn't possibly be true, but...) It was relatively flat, containing only papers maybe? And a little rectangle of cardboard, like a driver's license or credit card? Likely nothing dangerous, anyway.

She carefully opened the flap and peeked inside. No mysterious powders or obvious booby traps. Still, she'd apparently been around professional investigators too much, because rather than reach into the package, she brushed aside a couple of magazines (that catered to a lifestyle she could never in a million years fathom) on the low table in front of her and dumped the contents out. Just as she guessed, a rectangular card, identification of some sort and a folded piece of paper. She picked up the card, holding it by the edges (too many forensics lectures).

It was a security pass with a small, faded, blurred photo and its text proclaimed it to belong to a 'Mr. Charles Wright, Chief Researcher, Paragon Corp, 1313 Mierloi Plaza.'

She unfolded the note and read its brief but cordial message. Apparently, some Good Samaritan had found Mr. Wright's wallet, and amongst its contents was a hotel key to Nell's room (what was that about?!). They wanted to make sure that the wallet did indeed belong to the occupant before handing over everything anyone needed to perform identity theft, so they only left the note and the ID (since Mr. Wright would probably need it to get to work, where they would meet him at 8am to return the rest of his lost possessions, since it was nearby where they themselves worked).

_Damn._

She should just leave it for the hotel to take care of... That's what most people would do... Even knowing that the hotel _wouldn't _make any active attempt, just toss it into a Lost and Found in the off-chance the owner came looking for it. And, thanks to whatever misunderstanding that had the note and card in her hands, Mr. Wright would never know anyone wanted to return his recovered wallet.

Besides, something ingrained into the very bones of her rural Michigan self wouldn't let her leave a person in such an inconvenient position. She sighed, and pulled out her tablet PC.

Maybe she should try the brass nametag woman, practice her field agent skills. But when it came down to it, she wasn't Callen or Sam Hanna, Deeks or Kensi Blye. She was Nell Jones. And she'd like to think she hacked the hotel's system faster than any of the silver-tongued agents could have coaxed the information out of a jaded hotel employee.

Apparently, Mr. Wright had checked out and canceled the remainder of his reservation (for several weeks) at the hotel. Her room had been his up until yesterday afternoon. Odd but not unheard of. There was a note added in that he'd only returned the one key, having lost the other (along with his wallet, perhaps?) and they'd recoded the locks. So at least some random stranger couldn't sneak into her room in the middle of the night. This hotel just kept getting classier and classier... Although, it was a bit reassuring to know that expensive places could be just as shoddily run as the places she could actually afford herself, lending her the conclusion that whenever she chose to treat herself to some 'low-end' respite from work it was just as good (if not better than) the costly vacation crap.

She pulled his phone number and used it. Mr. Wright sounded like a nice enough man. At least, he didn't sound serial killer-ish. But then, was there even a tone of voice that could intimate the speaker kept dead bodies in the basement or the trunk of the car? Never-the-less, Nell informed him that not only were the keepers of his wallet intending to meet him outside his place of work in just under an thirty minutes, but she would show up as well to return his work ID (which also apparently granted him access to all of the building and thank god she had it because it would take about three days of begging and filling out paperwork to get another).

Not knowing how long it might take to get to Mierloi Plaza, Nell did a quick search, hurriedly shut down her tablet and tucked it into her messenger bag, along with the note and ID in their original envelope, and sprinted through the lobby doors to hail a cab. It would take almost the entire time for her to get across town, apparently, by cab… at this hour anyway (And she wasn't feeling up to navigating the subway system. Or going underground, for that matter, when a tiresome day of synthetic lighting and mind-numbingly dull interior decorating was stretching out before her).

And if Mr. Wright turned out to be a serial killer, it might spice up her day a little. Normally a troubling thought, but she was feeling confident. Because of the lacy teal panties. Oh, yeah. And the Glock she was carrying on her person.

...

Nell Jones arrived to Mierloi Plaza as punctual as she ever was. It was a complex of buildings with an extremely tiny and overly landscaped courtyard. It was nice enough for sporting less than one hundred square feet of grass, a handful of trees and much more concrete than either greenery combined. Also seemingly nice enough was Mr. Wright, who turned out _n_ot to be the serial killer he potentially was to her imagination's more ghastly indulgence. Then again, perhaps he could've been. For she only saw him briefly, putting the faded face from the ID into slightly sharper detail, as she found him sitting on the edge of a cement fountain. She never had the opportunity to say a word to the man, or get very close at all, before someone began shouting fervently, coarsely and with ample profanity, causing her to turn away from the fountain to see a man running towards her, frenetically waving his arms as he shouted. And then something hit her back with enough force to throw her off her feet and turn her world black.

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**A/N: Intrigued? I hope so, because I'm quite enjoying this one.**


	2. Chapter 2: Jack McClane

**Author's Note: Okay, so the fifth movie wasn't particularly good, but it had a lot of potential! The writers just really dropped the ball. And they should've at least left some of the 'deleted scenes' in the final cut. Also, why is it so short? They could've used the extra time to develop the whole father-son reunion thing. There was better interaction and development given to the Matt Ferrell-John McClane dynamic in **_**Live Free or Die Hard**_**. Nevertheless, I do really think Jai Courtney was a good choice for Jack McClane. And so I'm 'borrowing' the character for my amusement… (and maybe yours, too?)**

**WARNING: Language. Chapters centered around Jack McClane will probably contain coarser language than those centered around Nell Jones, for the simple fact that her character is contained within a television series level rating system that is reflected in the canonical development of her character. Whoa! Just looked it up and I always thought the **_**Die Hard **_**series was rated PG-13, but apparently only **_**Live Free Or Die Hard**_** is… odd, it doesn't seem any less violent… but perhaps that's why the 'yippie-ki-yay…' was cut off in the theatrical release? So maybe this deserves an 'M' rating despite the fact that I don't feel that it's at all on that level except for a few swears. Boo.**

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**Chapter 2: In which Jack McClane is having an unpleasant morning...**

_Oh, fuck._

There were few traumas in the world that could make a person hurt just _everywhere. _And like an idiot, he had just run straight into one, hadn't he?

Jack McClane pushed himself off the ground with an anguished groan, only to find his yet-in-shock arm muscles failing him and sending him back onto his stomach with a grunt of pain. He took several deep breaths and tried again, this time succeeding. Well, mostly succeeding. He staggered a bit on his feet as he recovered his balance, his ears ringing and his head spinning.

The world was a smoky, sooty storm. It was raining debris and the acrid air stung his eyes. He blinked, wiped away the cleansing tears. It took several complete turns before he was able to orient himself and find the fountain where the mark had been sitting. Only a blackened hole remained with several pieces of charred cement strewn about. But there was still water spraying from the remains of the fountain, which was probably good since a nearby tree was on fire.

_Oh, great._

He swore loudly, turned and stalked off, unable to stand still for the fury that had blossomed suddenly inside of him. And then he saw it. It would fucking be the case, wouldn't it?

He turned and began to run. And then he saw _her_. Lying in a crumpled heap off to the side, the young woman he remembered watching approach the mark right before he noticed that first suspicious brown box that had -shortly after his failed attempts to warn anyone- exploded. Her yellow dress was no longer yellow. But if there was even a chance she were still alive...

He veered off towards where she lay in the stained and scorched grass, crouched down beside the still figure, rolling her over onto her back and scooping her up when she showed signs of life by moaning. She was small and light and just maybe he'd make it far enough away. But the heat and concussive force hit him in the back after only a few yards, throwing him off his feet once more.

It was difficult to say who had the worst of it. The small woman had broken his fall. But he'd taken the force of the blast with his back, shielding her from it. At least the grass was a softer thing to land on than the pavement. But the woman -young looking, _girl_ might be more appropriate a term- trapped beneath him appeared to be unconscious. And his much more substantial bulk smothering her probably wasn't helping. He hastily rolled off from her, groaning as his back hit the ground and every muscle fiber in his body protested.

Jack took a selfish moment to just hurt and curse his goddamn horrible luck. _A McClane's luck_. Didn't his damned excuse for a father have any other traits to pass on to his kids? Apparently, not. Except, taking on this case had been Jack's own stupid idea, and he was just going to _hear_ it from _dear old dad_. There was going to be a whole lot of 'I told you so's coming his way. Or worse yet, just silence, a shake of the head, and that goddamned smug smile of his. Jack loved the man, but sometimes...

Well, enough of that, he supposed, and tried to roll onto his stomach to get up. He almost made it. But somehow, his body had just given up. Like picking his sorry ass off the ground, the flare of temper, gathering up the girl and running a few more paces had drained his emergency back-up energy reserve and he was just plain /_out_/. And so he was lying on his side with nothing to do but ache. Ache and fume. And watch the auburn-haired girl begin to regain consciousness.

The slightest twitch of her fingers was somehow visible through the debris still floating slowly downward like fat snowflakes on a windless day. The delicate digits twitched some more. And then the placid features of her dirt-smudged face tightened into a grimace. The pain had hit her before consciousness had. Poor thing. Wrong place, wrong time.

But wait, that wasn't quite right, was it? She'd clearly been approaching the mark (who'd apparently been the target of something more nefarious than Jack's little operation). Maybe she was involved in the bombing. But who would walk towards a bomb? Well with that kind of calm and open demeanor, anyway?

Oh, there. His nervous system finally seemed to have rebooted, so Jack pushed himself into a sitting position and then leaned over the girl who had started to slowly move her legs about as if she couldn't get comfortable. She was whimpering softly and her eyelids were fluttering.

"You okay?" he checked her pulse. Quite rapid. But no surprise there. "Hey, miss, you with me?"

Her eyes opened. They were big, hazel and startlingly penetrating as they locked onto his face and scrutinized him. Calculating his threat? His worth? His personal history or his future potential? Whether he was a good brother, a terrible son? A closet serial killer? A secret lover of dogs and poetry?

"Wh-what the hell happened?" she asked, closing her eyes once more, which allowed him to release the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. She opened her eyes again and a wry smile curved her lips. "I mean besides the obvious fact that there was an explosion of some kind."

"I don't know," Jack said, truthfully. But he had the horrible sensation that it had something to do with the case he'd been working on. And she was looking at him again like she just _knew_ his thoughts, that he'd told her a lie of omission.

She opened her mouth, but he never got to hear what she was going to say before the paramedics arrived, interrupting and taking over in that intensely business-like fashion typical to the profession. He shortly found himself herded into an ambulance and carted off to the hospital for an x-ray, MRI, brain scan or _whatever _to make sure his insides hadn't been turned to mush by the concussive force of the explosion -despite his insistence that he'd probably be aware if his grey matter or guts had been pureed. And butterfly bandages probably would've closed the gaping hole left in his right bicep when the paramedic had removed the wood splinter. Granted, it was more _twig _than _splinter_ and some stitches _would_ probably keep it from reopening when he inevitably used his right arm for, well, _anything_. But couldn't the paramedics just take care of that on scene? Or shouldn't they have known better than to pull that splinter out without being prepared to treat it straight off in the first place?

He glared at the young man (maybe he was an ignorant newbie) and the older woman sitting alongside the gurney they'd (_she'd_-old witch!) threatened to strap him to if he didn't just lie down. Apparently, head injuries were presumed present and severe until proven otherwise by microwaves (or some such shit) they beamed into your brain to see the inside. Jack was of a mind that whatever scans they performed on him were likely far more injurious to him (probably give him brain cancer or something) than not performing them and letting him get on with the whole shitload of problems that had just blossomed like heat and destruction had from that -_those_- infernal explosive devices.

But Jack McClane had enough experience in these situations to know resisting the medical professionals would only drag matters out and prolong the whole ordeal to an unbearable degree. So he resigned himself to his fate of being poked and prodded and tried to consider the case he'd been working and how it had gone so horribly awry. What _had _they been missing? Because he didn't believe in coincidences. Even estranged fathers showing up in Russia in the middle of an op (and muddling it all up yet making it right in a way it was never thought to be wrong) and bombs going off in the precise spot where the man you were hired to follow and catch cheating on his wife were _not _coincidences. Not in any sane world. And not in any insane world for that matter, either.

The female EMT with her grey-streaked hair pulled tightly into a bun glared back at him as if he'd dropped off her teenage daughter three hours late with the girl's panties hanging out of his pocket. Wasn't he a victim in all of this? Shouldn't he be receiving some sort of sympathy from the medics?

Jack decided not to mention this.


	3. Chapter 3: Jack McClane

**Author's Note: Okay, this took me longer to update than I had intended, but I sort of jumped the gun in my eagerness and hadn't worked out enough of the plot yet. But since I've squared it away a little bit, sorting already written bits into place, this short chapter is now where it belongs.**

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**Chapter 3: In which Jack McClane gets sick of being prodded at, escapes and searches out a phone…**

He'd calmly suffered a frantic Emergency Room, skull and abdominal x-rays, and the cleaning, stitching and dressing of the puncture wound in his arm. But twenty minutes under the PA's inept forceps pinching and poking at his face and then back, extracting small bits of debris embedded in his skin was just too damn much for Jack McClane. The dark-haired woman's pretty face wasn't even enough to pacify him. Perhaps, because she wouldn't be charmed by the genial smile he'd attempted to give her when first handed over to her care, instead adorning a serious -bordering on grim- expression as she went to work on his injuries. After not so surreptitiously studying the woman (what else did he have to do as he was trying not to wiggle like a small boy getting his face washed after lunch before he was allowed to go outside and play once more), Jack decided that she'd be downright gorgeous if she smiled. In all of his covert work, he'd learned that a lot of what made a person appealing was their attitude. An open, friendly demeanor could easily charm a person, even to the point of creating a spark of sexual attraction.

The potentially-gorgeous physician's assistant turned back to the metal tray, dropping another splinter she'd just dug out of his shoulder onto the small pile in the sterile hospital bowl. Now was as good a time as ever for his escape. Grabbing his shirt, Jack hopped off the bed, startling the PA into dropping the forceps onto the tray with the sharp clang of a metal hitting metal. Damn. There were small holes all over the t-shirt -and it was one of his favorites, too! Worse was the thought that each hole represented a fragment of cement, tree, dirt, or bomb that'd been propelled into his flesh. He pulled the garment on, taming the involuntary wince of pain as much as possible.

"What are you doing, Mr. McClane?" The PA glared. "Those cuts need to be sterilized. They could become infected."

"You said they were superficial," he said, trying to meet her hard gaze with his own business one. He feared she'd had more practice. "I'll take a shower when I get home... in iodine... just to make you happy."

She scowled. But said nothing. Apparently, she knew his type as well as he knew hers (stubborn to a fault). And it seemed whatever sort of day she was having, she wasn't about to waste her energy butting heads with the likes of him. _Thank, god._

He stopped as he reached the exam room door and turned back.

"Where do I have to go to check myself out of here?"

The woman, obviously a little pissed judging by the force with which she was tidying up the delicate medical instruments, didn't turn to face him. He half-expected her to tell him precisely where she thought he could go. But she simply gave him directions back to the ER reception desk in an impassive, business-like tone.

What about him today was pissing off every woman he came into contact with? Well, almost every woman. He thought about the petite auburn haired girl as he signed about a hundred waivers saying if he died because he refused complete medical care, his family or his lingering, forlorn ghost (for that matter) wouldn't sue the hospital. Oh, the young woman had definitely seemed to have his number, the way she'd looked at him. But she'd smiled and there'd been that wry sense of humor showing through despite her having just been introduced to not one, but two bombs. _Was she involved? _It didn't seem likely at all. There'd been a couple dozen people in that plaza, none so close to the explosion as her, besides their now blown-to-bits mark (and himself), but still...

He tried his cell phone in the lobby again. There'd been a lull in the 'let's poke at Jack' activity whilst he was waiting in line for the series of x-rays they appeared to be giving anyone caught up in the blast (and he did have to admit that some bombs could cause serious internal damage whilst leaving the exterior not so blatantly pulverized). And he'd tried to call the office then, but there hadn't been any service. Apparently, the network was down due to the surge in activity right after the explosion. And it still seemed to be so.

Jack sighed and waited five minutes to ask the receptionist where there might be a pay phone he could use. There was a massive line at the bank of phones just down the hall from the lobby, so he proceeded to the next likely candidate.

On the whole, he enjoyed the turn his life had taken after that whole Komarov operation went to hell. He wasn't entirely sure what to do with the man, since he didn't have much father-son experience to use as a basis, but at least he did have his dad back in his life. And they were trying. Leaving the CIA had been an easy choice when they'd thrown a fit about how messy things in Russia went, despite the fact that the McClanes had shut down some pretty nasty bad guys. And although he'd been trained to like things organized, to use contingency plans and to always know his next move, he'd sort of gotten a taste for his father's wing-it, go-with-the-flow, just-do-what-needs-to-be-done style. John McClane had been able to take an early retirement from the force, had he an inkling to do so, for several years at that point. Lucy had finished up her dual degree in sociology and business, and was ready to throw herself into the workforce in some capacity (to pay off her student debt and to afford to continue to live in the city). It had sort of all fallen together. He actually wasn't sure who mentioned it first, but Lucy had sunk her teeth into it, and she was worse than a pit bull for letting go once she did. She sweet-talked their father into it. Jack himself actually hadn't needed much convincing, for he had a specific skill set and wasn't ready to be another government agency's bitch, so there wasn't many other options except maybe mercenary (with which the pay would doubtless be higher, but so would the chances for getting killed for no good reason). And so just over a month ago, the fledgling McClane Agency, a private investigative service, had been born.

And now, Jack had people, _family _he had to consider. People who would worry about him. Before, he could've just walked out of the hospital and begun tracking down the bombers to put a bit of hurt on them. Well, he'd always worked with a team. But a team was different than a family. They wouldn't shout at him for five minutes straight, then burst into tears and hug him so tightly as to near suffocate him, if he failed to check in and just showed up at some later date, which Lucy very well might do.

As was his survivalist's instinctive tendency, Jack briefly surveyed the space upon first entering the waiting room. It was moderately more warmly decorated than that of the ER's place of limbo. Perhaps, because being that of the maternity ward, it needed to reflect the cheerful anticipation associated with awaiting new life, rather than morose mood associated with, for example, awaiting someone to stitch your scalp wound up after your now _ex_-girlfriend smashed a glass beer bottle over your head. (Not that he had any experience with that sort of situation.) One side of the room was taken up by an elderly woman with a gaggle of small children (which must be in the current act of growing larger by one). There was another older couple (more expectant grandparents, Jack assumed) seated at the opposite wall, looking outwardly calm but with anxious expressions and few words passing between them (first time grandparents, then). Near the door, directly to his right was a single pay phone. Occupied by a beaming young man doubtless giving tidings of joy. And in the middle of the room balancing on the very edge of a sofa cushion, a man looking about a hundred times more pensive than the much older and much younger occupants of the room. A father-to-be. But why wasn't he in with his wife, girlfriend, mother-of-his-impending-child? He thought most men attended the births of their children, and it'd been so since the second half of the 20th century. But some people were squeamish. Hospitals. The sight of blood. The sight of a small human being emerging from a woman's private parts. Maybe, he couldn't blame the man. Then again, if Jack did ever find himself in the same situation, he shouldn't find the woman's parts particularly shocking considering he would already have been most intimately familiarized with them, hence the reason for being in such a situation. He briefly wondered if such intimate familiarity made the sight of childbirth more or less disturbing. But, the man didn't have to watch, anyway. Most of the time they were there to hold the woman's hand, comfort her, apologize for knocking her up and putting her through such an agony-

Oh, the phone was free.

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**A/N: Perhaps, a little dull for a Die Hard fic, but I like fleshing out characters/getting a feel for them. There will be more action in the future, but it might still be a couple chapters away.**


	4. Chapter 4: John McClane

**Author's Note: Did you really think I could keep John McClane out of this? :-)**

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**Chapter 4: In which John McClane ponders his less than relaxing retirement...  
**

Sighing, John McClane leaned back in his chair, putting his feet up on the desk in front of him. His eyes hastily cut to the office door, but it was only ajar a couple inches, so he relaxed into his slouch. If Lucy had caught him with his boots, boots rife with the grime of city streets, up on the fancy wooden desk she'd insisted upon his having... well, it wasn't a fight he wanted to have again. The stubborn temper on that girl... He supposed he only had himself to blame for giving her that. And perhaps it would give her problems in life, as it had him, but nonetheless John couldn't help but be proud of his firebrand of a daughter.

Lucy McClane (sometimes Lucy Gennaro, when she was especially pissed at him), was a strong girl, a survivor. And it gave her father quite a bit of comfort to know she could take care of herself, that she would be fine when he was gone. Because the ache in his aging bones was undeniable. He hadn't exactly lead an easy life and he was paying for it now. If he was bitter, he'd say he paid a hell of a lot for it when he was younger, too. But being able to put his feet up once in a while was nice. Being retired from the force, shouldn't he be spending his days fishing or playing golf or something else he had no idea how to go about and no desire to do? But here he was, hovering over the nest like a momma bird with fledglings that could basically fly on their own but still sometimes went crashing to the ground. How had he let Luce talk him into this? Well, she _had_ actually been talking to him. And the novelty of both of his kids displaying what could almost be called 'affection' for their old man must have confused him enough that he'd been susceptible to the pitch for the whole 'family run PI' thing, like they were some sort of happy familial unit in a generic 80s sitcom.

Not to mention the cliché almost on par with the noir classics... Former (cranky and/or jaded) cop turned Private Dick. But they'd insisted he wouldn't have to do much, just pull in his contacts and favors when necessary, and bestow his wisdom gained of experience (which they would promptly ignore). Damn spoiled kids. Wasn't Jack supposed to be the one doing all the leg work? John had spent all morning tailing (which really wasn't John McClane's style) a man only to have lost track of him in the throng outside the US District Courthouse, then without being able to find a taxi, humping it by subway all the way back to the office. Granted, he _hadn't_ told the kids about tailing Thomas Holloway, since it was a decision he'd made based on a hunch, which the thoroughly modern-minded, technologically-dependent youngsters would've dismissed as ridiculous. Probably a good thing, since it hadn't panned out at any rate. Maybe he was losing his touch.

John closed his eyes and let go of all his stupid worries (something it had taken him a damn long time to learn to do). Yup. It was just about Old Geezers' Nap Time. That was for certain.

"Dad!"

He was on his feet in less than a second, and into the main room of their small Manhattan office space in the next. Because that wasn't a 'I know you've put your dirty shoes on that nice walnut desk I bought you' yell. It was anxiety and desperateness embodied. It was a little girl needing her father. _His little girl._

"What is it, Luce?" he asked, breathless and choked with the panic of hearing his daughter cry out for him. His heart was pounding in his ears.

The young woman who would forever be John McClane's baby girl, was sitting at her own tidy, practical (for some reason she insisted he have the fancy thing he couldn't touch or look at sideways while she had a slightly beat-up metal number that could've been his trusty old desk back at the precinct). Her skin, normally on the fair side, had been drained of its healthy glow and color. Her hands were both clenched around the arm of the dark haired young man who sat beside her. Oddly, the usually much more perturbable boy found his voice first.

"Uh... You'll want to see this, McClane," Matthew Farrell said, addressing him by his surname as the kid always had, despite the confusion of working with three people that would respond to the same. Farrell -John supposed he should try calling him 'Matt' more often, especially since Lucy and he... well, John rather not think too much about that- _Matthew_ did his tech-geek thing and brought up a video on the computer screen. It was footage, obviously somewhere in Manhattan (there was just a feel to the place, to which John McClane was acutely attuned). There was a dark haired, bespectacled young woman, pretty but looking a little on the vegan-granola side. She was giving a report of some sort, quasi-ranting about the Global Corporate Conspiracy to control the world's food supply, citing that huge class action suit against PanAgra currently dominating the headlines, a subsidiary company of which was housed in the buildings behind her. Where exactly was she? Oh, Mierloi Plaza, as she helpfully informed him. But what was the point in listening to some conspiracy theorist rant on her blog-it-shows or whatever the hell those internet crazy dweebs with delusions of grandeu-_oh shit!_

The video had terminated abruptly in what was undeniably an explosion. But just before the violent crack of displaced air and the shuttering cessation of the video, there'd been a familiar figure running across the background.

"Was that Jack?!"

Farrell rewound the video to play back the last few seconds. It was Jack alright. What the _hell_ was he doing there?! And was he... John McClane could not even finish the terrible thought about his son.

"He's fine," Lucy said in her tone that would tolerate no reality that did not meet her expectations. Since the tenacious attitude was back, she must have recovered slightly.

"Have you talked to him?" McClane asked.

Farrell shook his head. "No signal. The cellular system's crashed due to the spike in activity following the explosion."

John nodded absently, his thoughts preoccupied by his fear for his son's safety. My god, Jack was a grown man, one John knew firsthand to be quite capable and rather resilient to physical harm. And besides, he'd never been much of a father. Yet, through it all, even the years when he and his kids had been living on opposite coasts, he'd always had that instinctive, overprotective parent anxiety for their welfare. Even now that he'd reached a decently ripe old age, and calmed down a bit, he worried about them. Which he supposed was why he'd let them talk him into this whole private investigative agency thing. But what good was it being able to keep an eye on his kids when they still got into shit?

"When was this?" he asked, finally pushing his paternal fear and frustration aside.

"It was posted 22 minutes ago," Matt said. "But..." He scrolled down the webpage, until text appeared on the screen. "According to the publisher, the video was taken at 8am."

Technologically handicapped he may be, but he wasn't completely inept, so John knew enough to locate the small clock in the bottom right corner of the computer screen. The explosion had occurred nearly three hours ago. And Jack hadn't contacted them? He felt his stomach go hollow. But maybe the kid just got held up, sucked into whatever mess this was, because a McClane couldn't just walk away when there were bad guys getting away with doing bad guy things.

"What's the story behind this?" John asked.

Farrell began typing and clicking a bunch, but he didn't seem to be getting anywhere fast. _Fucking internet. Oh, yeah. Greatest invention of man kind. My ass._

"Let's do this the old school way." McClane walked over to the TV set tucked into the corner of the small main room of their office and turned it on, tuning it to the local news station. And hey, what do you know? Reporters swarming a smoldering mess identified at the bottom of the screen as Mierloi Plaza. There were firefighters and cops milling about, having clearly already done the frantic emergency response part of their job. No ambulances were in sight at this point, so either those injured were already getting treatment, or... there was no one to treat. The band at the bottom of the screen shifted information to reveal that there'd been one fatality as a result of the blast. John strained his memory. Had the place been crowded in that video? What was the likelihood that it'd been Jack? The reporter was saying something about it being an eco-terrorist attack, but he wasn't really listening as he tried to figure out which hospital was closest, where they might have taken survivors. Just when he was about to ask Lucy if she could look it up and start making calls, the phone rang.

They all three jumped before Lucy picked up the receiver on her desk (John was damned glad he'd insisted on a 'landline' for the business as well as their 'company' cellular phones). Her face transformed entirely into one of relief and she smiled brightly as she obviously recognized the person on the other end of the line.

"Oh, Jack, thank god! Are you alright?"

John McClane felt himself exhale in deep relief.

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**A/N: A hint more of plot… Stay tuned for action (well, the -maybe- two of you actually reading this.)**


	5. Chapter 5: Nell Jones

**Author's Note: Bit of a delay… Wouldn't have been so long if I decided to break up this chapter beforehand (which I did decide to do anyway…)**

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**Chapter 5: In which reality reasserts itself and Nell checks in...**

The world didn't seem real, not quite _distant_ as in a landscape or objects that were miles away and just vague, un-detailed silhouettes, but more _distant_ as if she was living in a parallel universe, just to the side of reality, overlaying it and yet, not part of it. She could see details, people's grim, frightened expressions, but it just didn't seem_ real_. 'Dreamlike', she supposed was the term. But it didn't make much sense to her. When she was in the midst of dreams, she knew that she experienced them as if they were reality, that her brain cycled through the nonexistent stimuli and fired neurons in a very similar manner as to how she processed the waking world. Maybe they meant that sensation when you first woke... but here too, it didn't seem to apply. When she woke, even mid-dream, reality snapped into place in milliseconds, the strange fantasy world that had claimed her dissipating instantaneously, as if she'd been tethered to the dream by a rubber band that promptly snapped yanking all of the vivid subconscious world from her grasp. No, if she had to make any comparison to her current condition, it was the most like those times she engaged in playing MMORPGs or even first person shooters. Despite being a massive nerd, she really wasn't all that much of a gamer. But her friends were, and she therefore was by association. Because that's how they liked spending their time and she liked spending time with them (and most of them now lived far away from one another, and it was a way to gather... and also, _Eric_). Sort of like a social drinker... she was a social gamer. And it gave her a reference point for the sensation she was currently experiencing. Like when entirely sucked into the virtual-scapes, it had all the form and details of the world, but her brain nonetheless rejected it as reality.

The same could be said for this day. Her brain seemed determined to reject it as reality.

But it was real. She'd been caught in a bombing. A man had been entirely obliterated right before her eyes. Well, she hadn't seen much. Only that he'd been there. And then there was an intense wave of heat and a rush of air that hit her like she'd been struck by a freight train, throwing her to the ground. And then he wasn't there. Well, not true. She thought of the bits that had been floating down to the ground in the aftermath. The charred specks of debris soiling everything just outside of the blast radius, including her clothes and skin.

Suddenly, she felt very ill. Which, in part was a good sign, because it meant reality was reasserting itself.

She'd refused the pain killer the doctor, a tense-looking middle-aged man with thinning hair, tried to dose her with. The associated grogginess with any opiate had not been something she'd desired to experience. Because two emotions flooded her as she battled to come to terms with reality... curiosity and... _anger_. Someone had been murdered right before her eyes. And Nell Jones wanted to know_ why._

Her dress had been ruined, and they'd put her in one of those awful hospital gowns. There was no one for her to call to fetch her a spare change of clothes, so, after reasoning her way into getting discharged, she put on her best big-eyed, helpless expression and sought out a mark. Looking so innocent and gullible had never been something she'd been all that proud of having in her repertoire until Kensi had informed Nell of her jealousy over the younger woman's ability to do 'poor waif' charm. _Use what you got_. And it'd worked. She'd sweet-talked an orderly into giving her a fresh pair of scrubs. She'd compensated him, giving him a twenty and a smile, of course, for she had been raised right.

As she changed in the ladies' bathroom, she contemplated the surrealism of the day, tried to focus on any details she could remember, guess at the motives for such a violent and exhibitionistic form of murder. It was too specific to be a random act of violence, or terrorism. She was by no means familiar with the city, but the small courtyard in Mierloi plaza hardly seemed like it'd ever be a good soft-target. Even at peak times, its potential body count paled in comparison with so many other targets just as accessible. And oh, god, Nell felt a little dirty trying to think how a terrorist might. But she had been trained for it, hadn't she?

If it _had_ been terrorists, someone would be claiming it soon. If she could just get in contact with... Eric. Yes, he'd be the best one to call. Hetty would simply remind her that this wasn't in her jurisdiction (after making sure she was okay, of course). And Nell felt a severe compulsion to investigate the crime that had nearly taken her life. No, not just a nameless _crime_, but _Murder_. It had to have been premeditated, the murder of Mr. Charles Wright. But why? She chewed her lip as she stepped out of the bathroom stall, draping the hospital gown over the swinging metal door, and starting when she turned and caught her reflection in the mirror. It was ghastly enough to scare the thoughts right out of her head. There were dark circles under her eyes, and little red scratches on her face, neck and hands. She still looked pale and bloodless, although she no longer felt that odd numbness of shock. Her hair was a tangled, grimy mess, filled with soot and ash and... _ew_.

Oh, jesus. She could have died!

Any closer to the explosion's center and she _would_ have died. That second one surely would've killed her if it hadn't been for that man. That man who had been running towards them, trying to warn them before the first bomb went off. Who the hell was _he_? And how was he involved?

Perhaps, it was an etiquette no-no, but Nell knew better than to believe that her cell phone usage would interfere with hospital equipment, not unless she were on top of the devices rather than standing in the cold, starkly lighted ladies' room. She tried to access the 4G network, but the connection was so sluggish her cutting edge technology gave up on it before it could load a measly megabyte. She tried to call Eric, but the network was apparently overloaded and it failed to go through. Damn it. Looks like she was doing this old school... possibly even analog.

Of course, there was a massive line at the bank of pay phones in the Emergency Room's lobby. Especially since with the advent of the mobile phone, they'd cut back on the reliable old public landline networking, and there were only two of the dinosaurs of human technology remaining. She went in search of another pay phone, reasoning the various departments' waiting rooms would provide. Examining a directional sign, she spotted what she thought the best option would be and headed to the maternity ward.

Her jaw dropped a little when she saw who was occupying the single pay phone in the waiting room full of anxious (but in a pleased rather than sad or terrified way, as in the ER) faces. It was her savior. Her savior that might also be a murderer...

He hadn't seen her, and so she swallowed down her shock and her rapidly beating heart and walked nonchalantly to stand beside the phone. His back was to her, but she was close enough to eavesdrop on his conversation. When she was inevitably busted, she could feign innocence, and without lying. She just wanted to use the phone. That's all. Same as him, she presumed, finally freed of the doctors' clinical, annoying hands, needing to contact... family? Coworkers... _Bosses_?

"...don't trust him. I'm going to check it out." The man sighed, a sound of exasperation, and turned around. Nell froze, her eyes going wide when his blue-grey ones fixed on her face and his expression turned to one of surprise.

"Yeah, yeah," he said distractedly into the old plastic phone receiver, still staring fixedly down at Nell. "I will."

He was much taller than her, by at least a foot. But she was accustomed to tall guys, working with several who'd achieved notable height, and a number who were just plain bad ass. So this broad shouldered, visibly solid young man (she'd put him at around her own age, mid-20s) could not intimidate the likes of her with his mere presence looming over her.

"I'll check in later." He hung up the receiver, his gaze never wavering from her. If his size and athletic build couldn't intimidate her, then his psychological trick wasn't going to either... she hoped. She swallowed again, in as discreet a fashion as possible, refused to break eye contact with him, and put on a genial grin. Honestly, she was more than a bit relieved when a lopsided smile of his own broke out on his face in response.

"I'm glad to see you're okay," he said, and she detected no insincerity in his voice.

"Yeah. Um..." Okay. He could stop looking at her so intently any time now... "Thanks for saving my life."

That did the trick. her knight-in-torn-up-t-shirt looked away, rubbing the back of his neck and giving her a half-shrug, muttering "You're welcome." Were his cheeks reddening a little? He was embarrassed by the display of gratitude? Well, wasn't that just goddamn adorable? Damn it. Focus, Nell.

"You weren't injured in the process of saving my sorry ass, were you?" she asked. His grin broadened and he fixed his eyes on her face again, obviously appreciative of her self-deprecating sarcasm.

"No," he said. "Just a few cuts and bruises." Polite social custom would require her to look away, to break the eye contact between them after a few seconds, but... no one had ever quite looked at her like that before, like they didn't quite know what to make of her, like she were a puzzle without a picture guide and possibly missing some pieces... and he _loved _to do puzzles.

"But definitely worth it," he said. Her mouth went suddenly dry. She licked her lips. His pupils dilated as his gaze dropped momentarily to her mouth then returned to her eyes. Okay. Okay, this was weird. Her logical brain knew that this guy could be involved in the bombing, could be one of the bad guys... but looking into the attractive features of his face, the strange combination of hardness and soft, playful innocence she found there... she was intrigued.

He visibly shook himself, breaking her own near-trance state.

"I've got to go. The phone's all yours," he said, indicating the archaic piece of technology bolted to the wall with a quick gesture of his hand.

"Really, glad you're okay, though," he added as he brushed past her, the contact between their bodies sending a little electric jolt through her that stupefied her higher brain functions.

Idiot! By the time she'd recovered her senses, he'd already disappeared. She ran out into the hallway, but there was no sign of him. Damn it! She should've gotten his name to have Eric run it. Sighing, she trudged back to the pay phone and called her partner collect (and was surprised the service still existed).

/Nell! Oh my god?! Are you okay? We've been trying to get a hold of you. They said you didn't show up at the Federal Building this morning. Were you near that explosion? Oh my god, you were, weren't you? What were you doing there? And are you okay?!/

Nell rolled her eyes so hard she could practically see the inside of her skull as her tech geek partner at the OSP rambled on and on in his concern for her. She really did like Eric Beale. A lot. But times like these... she honestly just wanted to slap the man. There was no need, however, to combat the urge, for he was on the other side of the continent and well out of reach. Instead, she tried to regulate her tone of voice while succumbing to another eye roll.

"I'm fine, Eric," she said calmly. "Really."

/But why aren't you with the TAFT people./ Shit. She needed to call over there, too.

"Because...um... I might have been in Mierloi Plaza this morning..." She winced.

/No way! You _were_ there. Callen told me I was just being paranoid, but I knew I was right about my bad feeling. I tried to tell him, but he just wouldn't listen to me. Are you positive you're okay, because lots of IEDs can cause internal damage not detectable except for in X-rays or CAT scans. Did you go to the hosp-/

"Yes, Eric!" This time, her frustration leaked through despite her best efforts. Normally, she was the one there at the technical operator's side, talking him down from his anxiety. Whomever, if anyone, was there in her place was obviously not up to the task. "I'm in the hospital right now, but I've been released with a clear bill of health. And I want you to do something for me."

/Anything. What do you need? Some chicken soup fed-ex-ed to you? Oreos? What?/

Yup. He was wound tighter than a rubber band in a toy airplane set for take-off.

"I need you to find out everything you can about a man named Charles Wright, and the company he works for... A Paragon Corp. Something's not right here. I don't think this was some random terrorist bombing."

/They're saying it was ecoterrorists. And I had better run this by Hetty./

"Eric!" Oh, no. Hetty would have to go through official channels. And official channels would say that Nell Jones had no business prying into the investigation that had doubtlessly already been assigned to various law enforcement agencies, but not hers. "Don't do that, please."

/Um.../

"She's there with you, isn't she?"

/Uh... yeah./

"And she's been listening to our entire conversation, hasn't she?"

/Yup./

"Uh... hi, Hetty. How's it going?" Nell tried for the 'rural, shooting-the-shit chit-chat' tone. Like she'd ever get anything past the old spy.

/I'm glad to hear that you are alright, my dear. But given the circumstances, it's probably best that you take some time off to rest up. I'll inform the TAFT group that you won't be rejoining them. Would it be incorrect for me to assume that you're not up to flying back to Los Angeles quite yet... given the...uh... trauma to your physical well being?/ /

Was Hetty...?

/I think it best that you call and check in with us on a regular basis. Mr. Beale, I believe, would be happy to keep you updated./

She was! The old spy was telling her to stick her nose in all she wanted without officially giving permission for her to investigate something that neither of them had authority to do. God, Nell loved that woman!

/And Ms. Jones, I hope you find your stay in New York... _enlightening_./

"Thank you, Hetty,' Nell said, before hanging up the phone. Her mind began racing. Where to start? The hotel, obviously. She could change, call and see what preliminary information Eric could dredge up, and most importantly... Charles Wright had been a guest there... staying in her room, of all places.

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**A/N: I know I promised action… but this setup is taking some time. Sorry. I will try my best to make it spectacularly gory/suspenseful/fun when given the chance.**


End file.
